


2027

by indiefic



Series: Balance [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Not a Captain America fic, but sort of a captain america fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4792700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 2027, the McGreggor Riots failed. And something else was started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Contact

**2027**

**first contact**

 

Curtis doesn’t understand a lot of what Gilliam does.  The man is always thinking, always scheming, five steps ahead of Curtis and more human than any man Curtis has ever met.  Without Gilliam, Curtis doesn’t even want to consider what might have happened to him.  What he might have become.  Curtis doesn’t see what motivates Gilliam, but he’s learned to trust him, learned to take leaps of faith for Gilliam when Curtis has lost faith in every other thing in this world.

 

There’s an empty bunk that they keep for clandestine purposes, though considering what a clusterfuck the McGreggor riots were, he knows these days it’s used for fucking or kronole.  Anything that can help people forget.  So far, Curtis has succumbed to neither.  For him, misery is its own kind of indulgence.

 

He pushes aside the rank old tarp and goes still.  Or as still as you can go when the world never stops rattling.  The bulb in this bunk is old and weak.  It flickers in time with the oscillations of the train.

 

He knows at a glance that she is not one of them.  She does not belong in the tail.

 

He steps inside, ducking and takes a seat on the bunk, looking at her as she crouches in the corner.  The tarp falls closed, muffling the sounds outside and he just looks at her in the flickering light.

 

She stares at him with dark eyes, the same color as her hair and they’re both shiny, glossy, with a vitality that he hasn’t seen reflected in another human for years.  She frowns and he knows that he isn’t what she was expecting either.  He has no idea what she was expecting.  But her features shift from annoyance to curiosity in a heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

 

How many died?  How many lives were sacrificed to maintain Father and Wilford’s precious balance?  She hates them more than she ever dreamed it possible to hate anything.  She only agreed to this farce of an order so she could get access to the tail, to find Father, to unmask him and watch as his sycophantic followers literally devour him for the lies he’s fed them.

 

She knows that Father believes he has protected her, sheltered her.  She knows he thinks that he’s serving the greater good by keeping the scum in their place, cultivating the precise amount of unrest to balance the ledger every couple of years.

 

She knows the compromises he’s made to his own humanity, under the guise of keeping her safe.  He believes her ostensible life of luxury is a good life, a safe life.  Like she doesn’t understand the people he’s sacrificed to buy her status.  But she knows.  She’s always known.  And she’s hated him for it, but never more than now.  The blood from his latest culling - the thing he’s convinced his followers to deem a _revolution_ , rather than a mere accounting update - isn’t even dry.

 

Father’s worried.  She knows that and it gives her a vicious glee.  Because he needs her now, to serve some purpose in his retched plan and she fully intends to turn his world asunder, to unmask him as the mole and betrayer he is.  She has no idea what he thinks she can do to further his deception.  But whatever it is, she’s not going to do it.  She’s not going to play her part.

 

She stands there, in the flickering light and waits.  The tail is even worse than she imagined.  The stench is overpowering.  They don’t even have windows, just these flickering, unreliable lights.  They have no food, no water, no resources except those meager rations doled out by Wilford.  It’s a shanty town of dozens upon dozens, packed into a few hundred square meters.  These are the lives Father has toyed with.  He’s done the unforgivable and given them hope while he feeds their children to Wilford’s machine and plots their deaths when they run out of space.

 

The tarp is lifted and she is expecting Father.  But this man is not Father.

 

She stares at him and he stares back.  He takes a seat on the bunk, watching her and she knows that he has no idea why he’s here either.  The tarp falls shut and they’re closed in the small space together.

 

She takes a deep breath and looks at him.  He’s probably her age, though he looks older.  He’s too thin, starving like the rest of them.  But there is still a vitality to him, to the way he moves,  that she wouldn’t have dreamed could survive in this hell.  His skin is so pale, sallow, and she knows he hasn’t seen the sun since the day the world froze.  

 

But his eyes ...

 

She didn’t know it was possible for a human to hold so much pain.  But this man does.

 

He’s not like Father.  He’s not complicit with maintaining the precious balance.  He _believes_.  And she almost starts to weep for that alone.

 

Without thinking, she closes the small space that separates them.  He looks up at her with something akin to wonder.

 

He’s dirty.  Every bit of him, covered in filth.  She can see the grime trapped in the wrinkles around his eyes and he smells terrible.  But there is something about him, something in the way he looks at her, in the way his features lighten.  She knows he hasn’t smiled in years.

 

She reaches out and touches his cheek and his breath catches.  She stands there, between his splayed legs, touching his face as she sways with the movement of the train.  His eyes flutter shut and he turns his face into her hand and she’s lost.

 

She pushes him back, so he’s leaning against the wall and she straddles him.  His arms circle her waist and he leans forward, pressing his face to the juncture of her shoulder and neck and he just breathes her in, his body shaking.  She holds him close and a tear tracks down her cheek.  She can almost feel the weight of the horrors that drag him down, and in that moment, she will do _anything_ to lighten his burden.

 

She pulls the filthy cap from his head.  His hair is so short, his scalp is visible.  He looks at her, like he doesn’t believe any of this is real.  But it is.  Because she doesn’t think she’s ever felt anything as solid as him in her entire life.

 

She leans in, pressing a kiss to his cheekbone and his fingers bite into her hips.

 

“Who are you?” he asks.

 

 _Your downfall_ , she thinks.  But she doesn’t say it.  Because she can’t.  Instead, she kisses him and he kisses her back with a frantic need.  His hand is in her hair now, gently touching.

 

She knows with absolute certainty who he is.   _Curtis Everett_.  Father’s protege.  Except that unlike Father, he is not complicit.  He’s been manipulated so masterfully that he believes every goddamn lie Father feeds him.  And now she’s playing her part, manipulating him further.

 

She should stop.  She should stop and tell him who she is, who Father really is.  She should give him the truth.  But as she looks in his eyes, she simply cannot do it.  She can’t take that tiny sliver of hope from him.  Because it would destroy him completely.

 

She pushes the coat from his shoulders and he does the same with her cloak.  She grabs the tail of his shirt and peels it over his head, and then does the same thing with the undershirt beneath.  When he’s finally bare, she almost weeps.  Every bit of him is covered in bruises and scars, visible under the dark hair that covers his chest.  Some of them are clearly old wounds.  Others are much more recent, undoubtedly sustained in the riots.  He’s thin, so thin, like the starving man he is.  But wiry muscle prevents him from seeming frail and his shoulders are so broad.  She wonders what he would look like if he were allowed to be the man he truly was and not this scuttling creature fighting for scraps.

 

She presses a kiss to a particularly nasty bruise along his right shoulder and he shudders.  His hands find the buttons of her shirt and he quickly works them free.  He parts the material and stares in wonder at her bra.  He reaches out and touches her tentatively and she groans, pushing into his touch.

 

Something seems to break in him and he pulls her close, no longer gentle and she responds in kind, fingernails biting, teeth scraping.  He pulls her down onto the bunk, stripping away the rest of her clothes before fumbling with his own trousers.  And then he’s there, between her legs, pushing into her and she holds him tight, urging him on.

 

They rock together, with the motion of the train, but it isn’t long before his thrusts are erratic.  He tries to slow down, to hold off, but she urges him on and he’s lost.  He rests against her for long moments, breathing hard.  He presses his face into the hollow beneath her ear.  “God, you smell so fucking good,” he whispers.

 

Her fingernails scratch along his scalp, cupping the back of his head and he shivers.  He withdraws and moves off her, resting next to her on his side, so that she’s on the bunk between the solid bulk of his body and the wall of the train.  It creates a false sense of privacy.

 

He leans over her, kissing her gently as his fingers trace down her side, to her hip and then to her sex.  For such a hard man, he is so gentle.  He teases her softly, kissing her the whole while.  She is soon arching into his touch, whimpering into his mouth and he coaxes her with kisses and fingers and words.  She comes for him, shaking, and he holds her tight.

 

They just lay there for long moments.  The failing bulb finally gives up the ghost and blinks out, leaving them in near darkness.  She rolls over, facing the wall and he curls against her back.  He’s fascinated with her hair.  She’s not sure why, but she sadly suspects that it’s mostly because it’s clean.  She rests her head against his arm.  She can feel the groove on his forearm, a testament to his bravery though she suspects he views it as a failure.

 

They doze for a while, but then his hand presses against her abdomen, slowly moving lower.  He teases her again, gentle, and she’s happy to abet his actions as he pulls her leg back, draping it over his own as he enters her from behind.  Again, they rock with the train.  She pushes forward against his fingers and back, driving him to the hilt.  He kisses her shoulder, her neck, her jaw where he can reach it.  She turns her face into arm, biting his bicep as she climaxes.  He grunts in pain, but tips into release too, gripping her hip tight, burying himself as deep as he can.

 

She doesn’t rest long.  In the near dark, she climbs over him and fumbles for her clothes.  He lays there, on his back, watching her. She wraps the cloak tightly around herself and touches the tarp.  He reaches out, grasping her hand and she turns back to him, kissing him hard, deep before she pushes through the tarp and retreats to the front.

 


	2. Lost

The guards don’t like her.  She suspects they know exactly what she’s doing and they look at her with disgust.  As if the fact that they’re not permanent residents of the tail section has something to do with their inherent worth and not just random chance.

 

She ignores them.  They matter not.

 

It’s the kind of dark that passes for night in the tail section, which is just a sort of dingy dimness.  True darkness would be too much of a luxury for them, it would feel too much like actual privacy.  They’re never allowed to forget that they’re a bunch of rats trapped in a big steel box.  It does as much to strip away their humanity as any of Wilford and Father’s engineered indignities.

 

She swore, after their time together, that it would not happen again.  That if she did see him again, that it would be only to tell him the truth.  But then she saw Wilford’s footage, of Curtis helping them rebuild, comforting the grieving, assisting the wounded.  Leading them.  Giving them hope, when he was struggling to feel it himself.  And she couldn’t do it.

 

That was when she really started lying to herself.  She embraced the idea that there were many truths.  And Curtis’s truth was that he cared, that the people of the tail section mattered, that there would be a day when things were better.

 

She grasps the ladder and climbs, past the boy, Edgar, who worships Curtis like a god.  He’s awake, squinting into the dimness as she brushes by him, but he says nothing.  She reaches out for Curtis and he grabs her, as if he’s expecting an attack.  He drags her into the bunk, pinning her to the inadequate mattress with his weight and she thinks he might hit her before he realizes, but he stops.  He takes a deep breath and smiles.  “ _You_.”

 

She situates herself on the narrow bunk, pressed tightly against him.  He holds her close, possessive.  His mouth is by her ear and he whispers, “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

 

She looks at him and he smiles again.  It’s rusty, like he’s forgotten how.  But it’s true and it makes her insides tingle.  She kisses him and he kisses her back.  He pulls the ragged curtain closed, though it does almost nothing to provide actual privacy.

 

She wore a loose dress this time, with nothing underneath and he groans as he touches her.  She undoes the fly of his trousers, pushing them down his hips.  This time he rolls, laying on his back, dragging her over him and she sinks down onto him, biting her lip hard, to keep from making a sound.  They rock together slowly, with the train, using the movement to try and disguise the sound of their coupling.  She knows Edgar is there, mere feet away, listening.

 

* * *

 

 

“Who is she?” Edgar asks.

 

Curtis ignores him, but the kid is nothing if not persistent.  “Come on, Curtis,” he says.  “She’s from the front isn’t she?  Who is she?”

 

Curtis shakes his head.  “Don’t know.”

 

Edgar just stares at him and Curtis meets his gaze evenly.  It’s the truth.  He knows a hell of a lot of things about her.  He knows how she tastes, how she smells.  He knows how soft she is, inside and out.  But he doesn’t know who she is.

 

“Are you serious, man?” Edgar demands, incredulous.  “I hear you two up there.  Fucking.  All the goddamn time.  And you don’t know who she is?”

 

Curtis just shrugs and turns back to the barrell he’s working on.  Edgar’s fifteen.  Anything about sex is endlessly fascinating.  Even if Curtis knew more about her, he wouldn’t tell Edgar.  He has no intention of giving him anymore spank material than he’s already inadvertently provided.  The last thing Edgar needs is to find some train baby girlfriend of his own and start a third generation of hopeless retches.

 

* * *

 

“You _fuck_ ,” Anna snarls.

 

“Not me, my dear,” Father replies evenly.  “You.  That is why you keep coming back, isn’t it?  For Curtis?”

 

She shakes her head, baring her teeth as she holds the receiver.  “You’re using him.”

 

“As are you,” he replies.  And there isn’t even the barest hint of remorse in his voice.  He’s told these lies so often that he completely believes them.

 

“What if I tell him?” Anna threatens.  “What if I tell him the truth?”

 

“You won’t, my dear,” Father replies.  “Wilford has already seen to that.  The guards will no longer let you pass.  Congratulations, by the way.  I hear I am to be a grandfather.”

 

She screws her eyes shut, not sure who she hates more, herself or Father.  Fucking Wilford and his fucking health checks.  She had suspected, when she was late, but having Father confirmit for her in this manner is less than joyful.

 

“Any truth you tell him now will only harm him,” Father says quietly, calmly.  “He is an idealist.  So bright and clever.  But he is a pragmatic soul.  If he discovers he has a child in the front, do you think he would make choices any differently than the ones I made for you?  He's meant for more.  He will be so much more.  We just have to give him time.”

 

She doesn’t reply.  She just sits there, clutching the receiver, biting her lip so hard she draws blood.

 

“You didn’t even give him your name, Anna,” he says, chiding softly.  “He loves you.  You know.  A loyal soul, our Curtis.  It will wound him that you disappeared so suddenly.”


End file.
